Viselike
by The Fifth Champion
Summary: He held the jagged glass in his hand. The voice had spoken. And he complied. Warning: Suicide Attempt


**Disclaimer:** If I owned Evolution, certain characters would be very messed up. So be glad I don't.

**Author's Note:** Uh...I probably shouldn't be here. I used to watch this show a lot when I was younger, stopped, and just recently got back into it. Some of the information is a bit foggy, but I'm gaining it back slowly.This is my first time writing for this fandom; I wrote this oneshot on impulse. I know that it's really obvious who it is, but humor me, okay? It's supposed to be dramatic. I may continue it if enough people like it. Heh, sorry for the _long _A/N. Please _read and review!_

**Viselike**

_A grip that squeezes tighter then a coiling snake... _

He felt sick; nauseous. An unpleasant pressure gurgling up from the very depths of his knotted stomach into his parched throat. There it tightened like a noose. His eyes, smooth bright marbles, darted to and fro in a crazed succession, but his clouded vision refused to yield. The world had become a blurred whirl of streaming colors; misshapen objects that loomed in shadows and discernable noises that hummed in his ears. And they were pressing in on him.

His lungs were too large and the air too thin—they craved for more nourishment, to be restored to their fullest. But although his mouth gaped wide open, his jaw dropped as he gulped huge breaths, his brain shuddered from lack of oxygen. Nothing was logical anymore; the muscles in his legs tensed, longing to spring into constant, blinding motion.

But they didn't.

His fingers were curled tightly, possessively, about the jagged shard. The broken mirror hung before him like a shattered façade, its remaining pieces reflecting a distorted image of his face. This was his truest form, he realized, the boy who cowered behind the absurd charade. His eyes were wild. His hair fell in messy ropes around his sunken white face. There was no smile on his lips.

The glass bit into his skin and blood kissed it. He felt the warm liquid sluice down his quivering palm in tiny red streams. Everything was closing in on him now. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't—couldn't _breathe…_

_Do it now, _a voice egged on softly. It was a kind voice. _Just do it now, when no one is looking. _

His mind returned a feeble blow, its dim voice a faint tremor, quaking with dizziness.

_—He'll always be looking. _

A sharp intake of breath; his lungs screamed for air, real air, the kind the fills your starved body to the brim. But instead he inhaled a still, warm oxygen heavy with fat dust motes. It was the only thing offered. He could feel his heart banging repetitively against his ribcage, roaring in his ears like the rumbles of a giant drum, rattling his head with painful throbs.

The voice was strong now. It spoke to him in a soothing tone.

_They will never understand you. They think they know, but they don't. No one does. Even you, dear child—so just do it, now, and you won't have to run anymore… _

Logic dragged pathetically under chains of fatigue and desperation.

_Don't—don't do it! You'll always have to run, no matter what. It is who you are. And they…they will understand. Even your father—_

His hazed vision swam, the voice sang, and reason sputtered and died. He felt his insides writhe, an unbearable heat gnawing away at the fragments of his brain. That man was coming! Coming now in his cold, merciless strides, his mouth a grim line and his voice like stone. So unlike the velvety-smooth lilt whispering now. The man would come with daggers and cages and locks. He would force him to submit himself, to confine to the cage, to choke himself beneath the burden of his birthright.

The burden a son had to his father.

And always, _always_ would he be unworthy, yet always, he would listen.

_Do it now. Do it quick and fast and fleeting. He's coming now; he won't let you get away. _

He felt the viselike grip tightened. His father's grip…

_Do it now._

There was blurring streak of silver, an ocean of crimson red, and then inky darkness swallowed him.

Pietro Maximoff hit the floor of bedroom, unconscious and bleeding.

A/N: Please read and review.


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